


it's the rain that will strengthen your soul

by thisbluespirit



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: 5 Times, Alien Planet, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clothes are Important, F/M, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, On the Run, Padmé Amidala Lives, Post-Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Recovery, Slow Burn, Spaceships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23444545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluespirit/pseuds/thisbluespirit
Summary: Five pit-stops on the way to anywhere but here.
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 24
Kudos: 162
Collections: Space Swap 2020





	it's the rain that will strengthen your soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/gifts).



> So, I saw this in your prompts - "Padme and Obi-Wan run away with the kids and raise them together on some decrepit old star freighter that breaks down every other day" - and this is what happened after it ran away with me. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> With many thanks to shyfoxling for the beta.

**i. Kinyen**

_[Polis Massa]_

_He stays at her side as she fades away. Some internal tide of her life force is inorexably on the wane; it ebbs and flows in a way he can feel too sharply and yet can see no cause, nothing he can fight. In contrast, the newborn twins burn like the brightest of lights in his arms as he holds them in turn; Luke and Leia, all that is to be salvaged from the ashes of their lives._

_It is the last straw in what has been in effect for him one neverending nightmarish day._

_“Padmé,” he says. “Hold on. The children need you.”_

_He doesn’t need her; he will go on anyway, he can almost see it already and just now, it isn’t a comfort. This isn’t her time. This shouldn’t be happening. And if there’s no reason he can see, then it must be the Sith again; the one thing always fatally hidden from them all._

_He puts her hand out to her. “Stay with me,” he says, and strokes the hair back from her heated forehead._

_Padmé turns her head, struggling again with her unseen enemy. She catches his eye and then her hand grasps his, her fingers tightening into a painful grip._

_For equally mystifying reasons, she lives. Something else, something precious, is saved from the fire._

* * *

Kinyen is a peaceful agriworld. They don’t intend to stop so soon, still only in the Mid-Rim, but Padmé and the twins aren’t fit for a long haul yet. Neither is their star freighter. They all but crash beside a crystalline river winding its way along rolling grassland. It’s the event of the season for the farmers who live there. 

It’s not discreet, but that’s not so bad: the Empire is hunting down lone Jedi on the run, not a careless family in a beat-up ship, making their repairs out in open farmland to the good natured jibes of the neighbouring Gran, who shake their heads at them, three eyes quivering on their stalks. They tell Obi-Wan he’s mad, and he doesn’t blame them. He suspects it may be true.

A loud wail breaks into Obi-Wan’s latest nightmare, causing him to sit sharply in his bed, before collecting himself. Leia is crying somewhere near. Nobody is dead. Not here.

“I’m sorry, Master Kenobi,” says C-3PO, standing in the doorway with a baby in his arms, “but young Mistress Leia is being very insistent. I don’t know why.”

Obi-Wan pulls his cloak around him as he edges himself out of bed. “She wants her mother,” he says. He’s spent so much time with the twins these last few weeks and their needs are urgent and simple; by this point, he picks them up without conscious thought. 

He rises to take Leia, who pauses in her wailing for three seconds, evidently contemplating whether or not this is an acceptable solution, before deciding that it isn’t, and breaking into fresh cries. Obi-Wan nods. It’s a fair conclusion: he and Threepio are poor substitutes for Padmé Amidala.

“Master Luke rarely makes such a fuss over nothing,” says Threepio.

Obi-Wan shrugs. “He’s less discerning, it seems.” He strokes Leia’s hair, holding her close as he tries to calm her, but she’s worked herself up too much to respond to his efforts at soothing her. Tiny fingers curl and uncurl around the folds of his tunic as she whimpers and hiccups before resorting to full volume again. She’s still so small. They both are.

If he ever thought a previous mission was difficult, he has changed his mind. Nothing compares to being on the run in the ruins of the Republic with a dangerously weak invalid, premature twins, a broken-down ship, and a distressed protocol droid. He’s still relieved they weathered the first week when it seemed as if neither Padmé nor the twins might be strong enough to survive. Even Artoo’s circuits seem to be fraying at the edges. 

If it weren’t for their sympathetic if bemused Gran neighbours it’d be worse. They regard them as a liability to themselves and lend them tools or bring them food, inquiring kindly after his sick wife. Obi-Wan lets that pass. It’s a disguise to add to his efforts to make sure no one is tempted to ask too many questions, and better than trying to explain the truth.

“Is something wrong?”

Obi-Wan turns at the sound of that soft voice. “Padmé,” he says, his tone a reproach. “You should not be up. You’re not strong yet; you know that.”

“Nonsense,” she says, holding out her arms for her daughter, who slowly quietens down, sticky fingers closing around Padmé’s long curls. 

Obi-Wan watches her, waiting for the moment he’ll need to step in. No matter what she says, he can feel how thin her strength is; how fast it fades. Leia will exhaust her in minutes.

“There,” Padmé says, throwing Obi-Wan a challenging smile that doesn’t stay on her face. She kisses her daughter’s head and something in him turns over, because he can still feel the way she kept slipping away under his hands. It took days before whatever was causing it finally stopped, even if each return was weaker than the last. He doesn’t want it to begin again, and he has no way to stop it if it does.

Padmé perches on the padded ledge at the side of Obi-Wan’s cabin. She looks up, and surveys him steadily. “You should get some rest, too. You look awful.”

“Thank you,” he says, but he sees her pallor increase, and the way she leans back against the durasteel. “ _Padmé_.”

She sighs, but nods. “Perhaps we’ll all sleep better if they’re in my cabin. For tonight at least.”

“Or perhaps none of us will sleep at all,” he says, but it’s scarcely an objection. He does what she asks, as he has from the start. He’s grateful to have orders.

“I _am_ getting stronger,” she says, when he helps her back to bed. She looks up at him, her hand on his as he pulls the covers back over her. She’s reassuring him. He closes his eyes momentarily at her touch. Somewhere in the haze of his tiredness a voice tells him it’s more than he deserves.

Threepio moves the crib into the room before heading off to take some downtime. 

“I know,” says Obi-Wan to Padmé. He strokes her cheek, to be certain she’s done herself no real damage, and they look away from each other, because there’s always a recognition of shared pain in these moments that is too hard to bear. He doesn’t need a mirror to know what his grief looks like when he’s with her.

Padmé says, with a nod to the crib, from which no sound emerges, “I think that’s done the trick.”

“You really mustn’t say things like that,” he responds, but for once, neither of the twins rises to the challenge. He’s sure they will presently, though, and stays by Padmé’s side for a little while longer. He’s spent so many nights here now that it feels more normal than his own cold and unfamiliar cabin.

When Obi-Wan wakes, he finds himself lying on the bed, his cloak draped over him and Padmé sitting up against the pillows beside him with Luke in her arms. Leia is not in the room. Obi-Wan reaches further out into the rest of the freighter to be certain she’s safe – with Threepio – and then lifts his head.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” says Padmé. “And since you didn’t stir even when we moved you, you must have needed it.”

He feels vaguely he should protest – this is not very Jedi-like – but then, none of this is, and it’s a bit late to object now. The will of the Force has led him to an unexpected, wider place these last few weeks, that’s all he knows.

“Didn’t Master Yoda promise to send help?” says Padmé. “Perhaps he doesn’t know where we are.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “I sent word to Bail by the agreed means. But things aren’t easy.”

Then, with perfect timing that reminds him that perhaps – perhaps – there is still no such thing as coincidence in this universe, there’s a roaring sound from somewhere outside the room, and C-3PO’s voice rises in affront. Obi-Wan and Padmé exchange a glance. Obi-Wan’s hand goes to his lightsaber and somewhere, even as he moves to the door, he registers Padmé reaching under the pillow for a blaster. (That’s _not_ a safe place to keep it, he thinks vaguely, making a weary mental note to point that out later. He’s here so she doesn’t have to resort to such measures.)

C-3PO arrives in the room. “Mistress Padmé,” he says. “There’s an injured Wookiee here. She claims to be the new nursemaid. Master Kenobi, tell her there’s been a terrible mistake!”

“That’s –” Padmé halts and blinks. “Well, that’s not what I expected.”

Obi-Wan manages a smile. “But possibly ideal in the circumstances.”

Padmé makes the mistake of laughing and the tears come. She shifts her hold on Luke to give herself one hand free to dry her eyes. “We’re supposed to be in hiding!” she says. “Nobody here is _ever_ going to forget us.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, sobering and stopping to kiss her forehead, “at the moment, our openness hides us as well as secrecy. I will make sure it does, I promise.”

After all, Padmé Amidala is dead, her unborn children buried with her, while Obi-Wan Kenobi is a fugitive who’s hardly likely to have remained in the Mid Rim. Should anyone see a resemblance in space-foolish Ben and Amé, it’ll only be another source of amusement. They’ll move on before it becomes dangerous – as soon as Padmé and the ship have regained the strength in their wings, they’ll fly as far away as they can.

Next time, however, they _will_ be more discreet. The Empire’s grip on the galaxy will grow tighter and more deadly. This is only the beginning.

* * *

**ii. Space Mart**

_[Polis Massa]_

_“Padmé.”_

_She’s feverish and nothing feels entirely real yet. She suspects that’s a mercy, but she blinks and focuses on Obi-Wan, returning to her side. She’s glad; she stretches out her hand. He takes it._

_“We have to hide,” he says. “We’ve been talking about it – what to do. Can you understand me?”_

_She nods. “Yes,” she croaks, after a moment. Her voice is healing at least._

_“The twins,” he says, after a pause. “We must keep them safe. I’m so sorry, Padmé. We need to separate them.”_

_She’s too weak to rise, but she feels the steel of certainty running through her and grits her teeth as she lifts her head to make sure he understands. “No. Together. We stay together. We must.” Maybe it’s another fever-dream, but she can feel the pain of it, all of them apart, and it feels_ wrong _. “Obi-Wan,” she gasps, digging her fingers into his arm in her urgency. “Promise.”_

_He doesn’t even try to argue, as if all the fight has already been drained out of him. He nods. “Yes, I promise. I shall tell the others.”_

_Padmé falls back, weaker again, and drifts into dreams of flying. And in the dream, she knows where they must go – far, far away._

_She knows this, too: Obi-Wan won’t like it._

* * *

The space mart isn’t actually a space station; it’s formed by a caravan of traders, their ships interlocking to make a temporary structure. Buyers and sellers flock to it, their smaller ships tethered at the ends of worryingly lightweight and equally temporary docking bays. Some that travel the Core Worlds are like space palaces when they come together, filled with everything the wealthy could ever dream of purchasing. Elsewhere most of them are like this one – run down and full of buyers and sellers who prefer to borrow no trouble and ask no questions.

Padmé’s strength has returned, but she can’t be happy about the risk. The region of Kinyen where they’d stayed until now was so sleepy and remote, it had been easy not to be afraid. This is completely different.

“Don’t worry,” says Obi-Wan beside her. “We’ll be careful, and this one trip should save us several planet stops. Then we can get further away at last.”

Padmé nods. Fixing the hyperdrive properly _will_ be a start, it’s true. And the twins are safe on board the ship with Kirrawwa and Artoo and they all have comm links to alert each other at the first sign of trouble. There’s no reason anyone should recognise them. She’s wearing a homespun tunic, leggings, and a green cloak, with her hair in one braid coiled around her head. She looks nothing like Senator Amidala with her penchant for dramatic couture. That was, after all, always one of the purposes of her formal wear. 

Besides, nobody’s looking for a woman whose state funeral was broadcast across the galaxy more than six months previously. She worries, though, about Obi-Wan. His likeness is less well known than his name, but he’s been on so many missions, met so many people and, as she has reason to know, you don’t forget the Jedi when they come to save your planet. She’s pretty sure that’s also true of those whose plans they frustrate.

“We’ll be as brief as we can,” Obi-Wan says, his voice low and light, as if trying to pacify her. “There are few friends of authority here.”

“I’m not sure we should split up.”

He gives a small shake of his head. “Halves the time we’re here.” He hesitates, giving a small frown. “I can look after myself – nobody will even see me if I prefer they don’t. _You_ take care.” Then he puts a hand to her arm and meets her gaze. “We’ll be back here in no time.”

Padmé feels some of her anxiety subside and then raises her head sharply. “Are you trying to soothe my feelings?”

“Sorry,” he says, his face alight with amusement for one all too brief moment. “Force of habit. I was up half the night with Luke again. Did it _work_?”

Padmé shakes her head. “That would be telling.” It did, a little, she thinks, and mentally curses him through unwilling laughter.

He squeezes her hand in encouragement before they part, and she walks away down the corridor’s gridded flooring with Threepio, still feeling Obi-Wan’s touch. She was so unwell at the start, and they were both in a state of grief and exhaustion, putting all their efforts into safeguarding the twins, that they’ve fallen into this new intimacy without thought. She’s strong enough now, though, and she’s not sure how to take it – if it means something, or he’s still checking on her well-being, or it’s only habit while she’s beginning to become more and more aware of him. She feels a pang of guilt and pain at the acknowledgement. Is she this fickle; this selfish in her need for human warmth and comfort against all this grief and loss? Could she even contemplate causing a second Jedi to fall?

That idea, though, is so ridiculous – of Obi-Wan ever leaving the light, whatever she might do – that she shakes her uncomfortable feelings away, rubbing her fingers against the sturdy fabric of her cloak, before consulting the list on her datapad. “Come on, Threepio. Let’s get this done.”

Nearly an hour later, with Threepio’s arms filled with fabric, Padmé enters an alcove where the walls are lined with weapons. Breath catching in her throat at the idea of the death and destruction they can wreak, she studies them.

“Looking for something special?” says the proprietor, making her jump. She turns, and finds herself facing a Toydarian, like Watto all those years ago. She hopes this one has a better nature.

Padmé gives a smile and shrug, playing the clueless provincial. “I’m not sure. I was wondering about something – maybe a blaster small enough to hide on me easily.”

His wings beat against each other as he frowns and then flies upward to a rack out of her reach and returns with a tiny, light grey blaster. It fits within the palm of her hand. It’s perfect.

“There,” he says. “How about that? Yours for 500 credits.”

Padmé’s too experienced a negotiator to show her real interest. She shakes her head. “Perhaps I shouldn’t. Most likely I won’t need it, and that’s beyond my price range.”

“Take it or leave it,” he says and removes it from her grasp. “Plenty of others who’ll want it.”

Padmé bites her lip, pretending to consider. “Will you take a hundred?”

Eventually, they work the figure up and down respectively to three hundred and seventy-five credits, and Padmé hopes the thing won’t backfire in her hand. But it is exactly what she had in mind. Just in case.

“You know,” the Toydarian says, sidling up alongside her before she can leave, and pointing at something he’s dropped on the counter. “If you’re interested in unusual weapons, how about this?”

It’s a lightsaber. Padmé mouth dries and for a moment she fights alarm. How does he know? Why is he playing with them? She realises slowly the offer is only what it seems. She’s shown herself a genuine customer. And probably what might have seemed like a choice black market item is now looking like something too dangerous to keep in Imperial space. Perhaps her blaster is a bad bargain, if he thinks he can foist any old trash onto her.

“Oh my,” says Threepio.

Padmé only shakes her head. “Doesn’t look very useful to me. What is it?”

“Never mind, never mind,” the Toydarian says, but isn’t quick enough to put it out of sight before someone else enters the booth.

Obi-Wan is here. He puts a hand to Padmé’s arm. “I felt something wrong,” he murmurs. “What is it?” Then he spots the battered weapon on the narrow counter.

Padmé moves in closer against him, uncertain what he will do – if he’ll turn on the vendor in anger or grief – but all she feels as he stiffens minutely beside her is a palpable absence of Obi-Wan. She can feel the warmth of his body, but his spirit is no longer with her, and she’s not even sure how she knows that.

Her earlier thoughts come back to her, and she realises it’s too late to worry: she and Obi-Wan are already hopelessly entwined. He can feel her momentary alarm from halfway across a crowded space market, and she’s not much better. Where exactly they’re going with it is hard to judge, but there’s no turning back.

“I’d get rid of that, if I were you,” is all Obi-Wan says, lightly as he turns to leave. “Broken, I expect.”

The vendor gives him a sudden, sharp look, and then knocks the lightsaber out of sight. Padmé glances at Obi-Wan before following him out, and wishes she could purchase it after all, out of respect, but it wouldn’t be safe. And there must be, she realises with a shiver, ten thousand like it out there. It will have to lie where it falls like the rest.

“Did you get everything?” she asks. Better to turn their minds to lighter matters, at least until they’re back on the ship.

He nods. “Nearly. Everything essential, anyway.” He casts a bemused look at her purchases, the mountain of clothes and fabric Threepio is carrying. “Are you planning on setting up a stall yourself?”

“Don’t make fun of me,” says Padmé, raising her chin defensively. Clothes have always been part of her armour, both literally and because people are so quick to take people for whatever their costume and manner proclaim them to be. Two people on the run _will_ need disguises, whatever Obi-Wan thinks about clinging to his Jedi robes. “We’re going to be stuck on this ship for a long time. I wanted to make it feel like home, even if it’s only a few cushions and hangings. Besides, children grow out of things fast. Or were you planning to take up bantha-farming and weaving?”

“I bow, as always, to your greater wisdom on the matter,” he says, but the banter is merely a matter of form; she hasn’t distracted him from the lightsaber at all.

Back on the ship, their first priority is to make a speedy get-away. Better safe than sorry. Then Luke and Leia demand her attention, while Obi-Wan has to negotiate an agreement between Kirrawwa and Threepio that doesn’t involve Threepio losing an arm. Kirrawwa is out of her home world’s fight due to her injuries and wants to feel she’s doing Master Yoda the favour she promised for saving her life. She doesn’t want a droid encroaching on her ground. Maybe Threepio isn’t supposed to have feelings, but Padmé suspects it wants to know it’s needed, too. Padmé must wait to speak to Obi-Wan again.

Perhaps it would be better to say nothing, but Padmé thinks it would only be easier, and she wouldn’t be here if it was her habit to take the easy way out of anything.

“Did you know – whose it was?” she asks, softly, closing Obi-Wan’s cabin door behind her with the weight of her body.

Obi-Wan is sitting cross-legged on the floor and lifts his head at her entry.

“Sorry. Were you meditating?”

“Only failing to,” he returns, but doesn’t move. “No,” he says, after a pause. “Impossible to tell.”

Padmé waits, giving him the chance to say more if he wants.

“It was broken,” he says, as if it’s a matter of casual interest to him, nothing more. “The crystal inside.”

She knows, as clearly as if he’d said it, that what he means is that he broke it. 

“Obi-Wan,” she says, and feels helpless. A wave of frustration follows; she likes to be able to _act_. She can’t even put her arms around him; she doesn’t have that right, not yet, and it might only make things worse if she did.

He lifts his head slowly, weighted with weariness. “I think,” he says, “that someone is screaming again, and if you wouldn’t mind, it _is_ your turn.”

It’s a dismissal, and it hurts, even if she suspects he doesn’t really mean it as such. He’s not quite come back from wherever it was he went yet.

“Of course,” she says, giving a quick smile. She turns back at the door. “If you want me,” she begins, and shrugs. A more genuine smile grows on her face. “Well, you know what to do – just scream like everyone else around here.”

He laughs, and he’s no longer quite so distant, which eases her heart. “Thank you,” he says. “I trust it won’t come to that.”

* * *

**iii. Cyphar**

_[Polis Massa]_

_Obi-Wan tells Master Yoda what Padmé has decided – and it is her right, they both know that – that Senator Amidala will first have to ‘die’ and then they’ll get a ship, and keep moving, as far from away the Empire as they can get._

_“Need help you will,” is all Yoda says after a silent moment of consideration._

_“Help?”_

_Yoda lifts his head, a sudden gleam of humour in his eyes. “Looked after infants before, have you, Obi-Wan?_ And _with a patient on your hands.” He gives a short, breathless laugh. “Send someone soon, I will. And when your new duties allow, training I have for you.”_

_“Training?” says Obi-Wan. He should know to expect the unexpected from Master Yoda by now, but it still takes him by surprise._

_Yoda explains about Qui-Gon, and immortality. Obi-Wan can barely take it in. But the measure of hope left in the galaxy is growing. There are seeds scattered across the burnt earth. Some of them will grow._

_What he most wants to ask Yoda, he cannot, because he does not think Yoda would have an answer: what are we now, he wonders. What does it mean to be all that is left of the Jedi? What new thing is made from the broken parts of the old?_

_“Discover that for yourself you must,” says Yoda, and Obi-Wan can’t tell if he’s talking about communicating with Force ghosts, or if he heard his thoughts._

* * *

They land on Cyphar. They set the ship down in a hilly region in the middle of nowhere and begin in earnest to repair the ship and replace the broken parts. It’s quiet; there’s no Imperial activity here yet, and they’ve seen few of the long-limbed, red-furred Cyphari in three months. They are only passing travellers, battered and worn, nobody special; stopping to breathe unrecycled air and walk in the reddish dust. Or in the twins’ case, to roll around in it despite all efforts to prevent them.

They’ve developed a routine. The children are sleeping better. Leia adores Kirrawwa, which gives Padmé chance to recover fully, and do whatever else she needs to. Obi-Wan divides his time between foraging and helping Artoo with the repairs, while Threepio and Kirrawwa have reached a truce over matters of childcare and education without any mechanical limbs being lost in the process. Compared to the earliest months of their flight, it’s almost idyllic.

Obi-Wan finds time late at night, to sit outside the ship and practice communing with Force ghosts. So far he’s seen and felt nothing, but he thinks Qui-Gon is more likely to appear planetside than in the vacuum of space, so he persists while he has the opportunity, sitting surrounded by the hum of life moving and growing above, around, and below.

 _Be alert_ , he reminds himself now, sitting cross-legged under the stars. _Do not grow complacent. Be mindful of the danger. The Sith are still out there._ He’s seen at least one Imperial Star Cruiser in orbit, though only on its way elsewhere. And Luke and Leia may cause a disturbance in the Force and lay them bare to the Emperor, despite all his efforts to shield them. This peace is only an illusion. They are never safe.

His sober thoughts are interrupted by a more prosaic disturbance, much closer to home – the sound of something tapping on the other side of the ship’s hull. He closes his eyes and smiles faintly, sensing nothing more alarming than the presence of Padmé Amidala. He feels her tiredness and determination, and then assesses the situation more closely before concluding that determination may be misplaced in this instance. He goes inside to help.

She’s sitting on the corridor floor, glaring at the ship’s workings, a displaced panel by her feet. Her hair is pulled back into one single plait, and she’s wearing a thick, navy bantha wool robe pulled around one of the delicate nightgowns she’d had with her on her ship. He pauses, appreciating the incongruity of the picture she presents; and the smudge of dirt on her cheek, the tilt of her chin and the way he feels through the Force the frustration that’s rising in her.

“I wouldn’t,” he says, moving nearer, when she raises the sonic wrench, as if to hit the panel with it.

Padmé starts, only narrowly saving herself from dropping the tool. “Obi-Wan. I’m sorry. Did I disturb you?” Then she frowns. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“No and yes,” he says, “in that order. Now, remove _that_ panel. I think you’ll find that will resolve the problem.”

She lowers the tool and gives him a wary look. “There’s something wrong with the filtering and recycling system. It woke me up – leaking on me. The controls are in this section, not that one.”

“Nevertheless,” he says, folding his arms, stealing a rare moment of enjoyment.

“I warn you, I’m already annoyed at being woken, and if all you can do is play the smug Jedi –”

“I’m serious,” he says, but she’s already working on prising away the panel. “Oh, and – keep back.”

There’s a small creature trapped inside the workings – warm-blooded, not hostile, but lost and terrified, its tiny heart racing. Once Padmé removes the right panel, Obi-Wan leans against the side and guides the creature down to freedom. It climbs out, perching on the edge of the opening, black eyes blinking in the light. It’s not that much bigger than his hand, furred with six limbs and a long, curling tail. 

“This way, little one,” he says, crouching down and encouraging it to take the leap into his hands, calming it until it crawls up to his shoulder, tiny clawed paws digging into him.

“You could have said.” Padmé watches with a wry expression on her face that he can’t interpret.

Obi-Wan laughs. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.” He puts the unknown creature down and watches it swing itself along the panelling until it drops out of the hatch and off into the night. If only all their problems were as easy to solve.

“Were you –?” Padmé waves a hand. “Trying to talk to Qui-Gon?”

Master Yoda says there is no try, but failure is undeniable. Obi-Wan acknowledges that he is himself most likely what stands in his way – failing Anakin also means failing Qui-Gon in the last thing his Master ever asked of him. How can he face him yet, when sometimes he still tastes the sulfur and ash in his mouth and wakes with the salt of tears on his face?

“It’s a work in progress,” he says, keeping his tone neutral.

She reaches out a hand, the robe slipping down from her shoulder, revealing the lace, one tiny piece of her old life. “You’ll do it,” she says. “And when you do, you can tell him from me – you can tell him –” She unconsciously lifts her chin and sets her face, sounding like the Queen he first knew – “Naboo will never forget.”

He closes his hand around hers and leans his head against hers for a moment. Here’s something else he holds back from. She wants him, too. He makes sure he gives her what privacy he can, but he can’t miss that. It’s a humbling fact that still takes him by surprise; robs him of what little breath he has left. But they have a long haul ahead of them and cannot part until the twins are grown. He doesn’t want to break her trust, and perhaps it’s too soon, perhaps it’s too late.

Obi-Wan pulls back from her, but remains near, studying the line of her cheek, the stray curls, haloed against the dim light. He could pull her in against him, her ridiculous silken nightgown against his rough tunic, kiss her hair, her temple, her lips, her neck –

He reaches over – Jedi control of himself intact – and pulls the thick robe back into place. “You need your rest.” 

The Jedi Code would have forbidden this, but now he can only take each aspect of it apart to see which still applies and which doesn’t. The rule regarding attachments has always been complicated, but he has no other Jedi to connect with, and nowhere else to be. There will be no assignments to take him away. This is now his last, his only mission. In any case, the true danger of attachments is the temptation to the dark side, to possessiveness, jealousy, and if there is one thing he has learned it is how to let go of those he loves and never turn away from the light. 

“Am I being selfish?” says Padmé.

He’s lost, having allowed himself to be distracted. He straightens himself. “I’m sorry?”

“I keep wondering,” she says. “It was my idea to do this, to keep the twins together. Perhaps I’ve endangered them – all of us – only because I couldn’t bear to give them up.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head and puts his hands on her shoulders. “No. We were floundering and you followed your instincts. The Force was with you. Even Master Yoda believed that. Don’t doubt it, Padmé.”

“But,” she says, and an unsteady laugh trembles on her lips, “I had a _fever_! I felt so sure, but now I don’t know – perhaps it was just a dream.”

He doesn’t know if she’d appreciate the reminder that she’d spent the previous eight, nearly nine months carrying two of the strongest Force sensitives he’d ever encountered, and might, back then, have been more powerful than any of them if she’d known how to use it.

“You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever known,” he says instead and releases her shoulders to grasp her hands. “Certainly not selfish.”

She squeezes his fingers before pulling hers free and stretches up to kiss his cheek. “Obi-Wan – thank you.”

He closes his eyes as she leaves and vows to be braver himself in the future. He must be, if he is going to move on; if they all are.

* * *

**iv. Varonat**

_[Polis Massa]_

_Padmé opens her eyes unwillingly – every part of her seems to ache and if she moves, the pain in her abdomen halts her. Master Yoda is beside her bed, not Obi-Wan and she feels another stab, this time of panic. Where is Obi-Wan?_

_“Time to go, soon it will be,” Yoda says, offering her none of the recriminations she’s bracing herself for. “Ready to die, you are?”_

_Padmé breathes in sharply before her idea comes back to her, but she understands, even in weakness, that he’s asking more than that. She remembers facing Anakin and all that he’s become, and, yes, whatever she hopes may remain of the boy she first met, she must leave him behind and look to the future. She has two lives depending on her. “Yes,” she says._

_“Good,” Yoda says and pats her hand gently. “One more question I have to ask.”_

_Padmé turns her head on the pillow. “I can’t stop you.”_

_“No, no,” says Yoda. “No interrogation this is; no orders I have for you, Senator. Only a request, from one old friend to another.”_

_She blinks away tears of exhaustion. “If it’s in my power, I’ll do it.” She owes him that._

_All he asks is that she look after Obi-Wan, and she almost laughs. As if she hasn’t always done everything she can to safeguard her people._

* * *

The jungle is dense and the atmosphere humid, but Varonat has rich vegetation that is an excellent source of easily converted protein, even emergency fuel when treated right. It’s too good an opportunity to miss when they’re passing by so close, and there’s not much risk of discovery – the planet’s only human colonies are tiny, and the other main inhabitants, the Morodins, are giant slug-like creatures who may not even be sentient.

Padmé is regretting the decision. The oppressive humidity makes her think fondly even of Tatooine. At least that was a dry heat. She’s wearing light clothing, green leggings and a paler green shirt, belted at the waist, her hair plaited and wound into a knot at the base of her neck, but even so her face is damp with sweat and stray tendrils of hair stick to it.

“Urgh,” she says, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand, the empty lifter pallet floating behind her as she walks along a dry mud ridge. She’s heading back into the jungle to rejoin Obi-Wan, having left Kirrawwa and Threepio to load their first haul onto the ship. She’s careful to sidestep any of the hanging vines. Some of them are carnivorous and wrap around unwary creatures, choking them. Obi-Wan’s shown her that all she has to do is keep still – the vines are attracted by movement – but it’s unnerving to feel one whipping around her leg. She doesn’t want to find one around her neck.

Her comm bleeps and she pulls it from her belt. “Obi-Wan?”

“I feel something here,” he says, his tone low through the audio crackle, the planet’s atmosphere interfering with the transmitters. “I’m not certain, but I think – Wait!” The comm cuts out even as Padmé hears the tramp of footsteps coming towards her. It’s too heavy to be Obi-Wan and it’s not remotely slug-like.

Padmé shoves the pallet away into the undergrowth, out of sight, before jumping off the path on the opposite side. She stands in the shallow, slimy water, listening intently, while a vine curls and uncurls around her ankle.

As the sound comes nearer, she can see two figures in grey military armour with red markings through the jungle foliage. Clone troopers – with Order 66 still embedded in their being. They’ll recognise General Kenobi on sight. Padmé’s throat tightens, and her heart pounds painfully against her chest. This past year is nothing but a dream; suddenly she’s back in the nightmare.

One of the troopers turns his head in her direction, but the other calls him back, as a holo image is projected from the wrist of his gauntlet. Padmé sees the blue flicker of another armoured figure briefly, before the troopers tear away down the path the way they came. They’ve found Obi-Wan.

Her fingers grip the soft trunk of the nearest tree, but she keeps her head, and holds back from rushing after. She presses herself back against the tree and calls the ship.

“Threepio,” she says. “You need to get out of here – and don’t come back unless Obi-Wan or I signal it’s okay. If we don’t, you’ll have to go on without us.”

Threepio, on the other end pauses – relaying the information, she trusts – but then says, “Without you? Oh, no – how could we?”

“You must. We’ll be okay,” she says, her hand going to the blaster at her belt. She sets her face. They _will_ be. But she hears the distant sound of blaster fire already. She takes in a breath and leaps back onto the path, racing along it as lightly as possible. Obi-Wan is a Jedi. It’ll be the troopers who’ll regret this. She can’t bear to think of any other outcome.

As she gets closer, there’s more blaster fire and shouting, but she sees the blue blade of Obi-Wan’s lightsaber through the trees and breathes more easily. She takes a side turn into the dense vegetation, wanting to remain out of sight for as long as she can. She steadies herself by hanging onto trees and branches as she makes her way through the swampy, uneven ground, impeded only by the occasional snatch of clinging vines.

Obi-Wan is surrounded by five troopers, and there’s another figure, their leader, facing him – tall, dressed in grey with a red cloak – brandishing a red lightsaber. He’s still several paces away from Obi-Wan, who’s busy deflecting the troopers’ blaster fire with his blade. Obi-Wan raises his free hand and the trooper behind him suddenly flies backwards, landing in the mud, and yelling as he’s dragged away by a vine.

Time to even things out. Padmé holds her position in the undergrowth, leaning forward to aim at the nearest trooper, who returns fire, hitting the trunk. She draws back sharply against the oddly soft bark before swinging round again to fire off more shots. The trooper’s closer and her shot hits him full on, knocks him into the muddy water. He thrashes around and the vines grips him, this time without any help from Obi-Wan. _Good._

She ducks as a laser bolt flies over her head, leaving a blackened mark against a tree. Still crouching, she leans outward, shooting from the other side of the trunk. Obi-Wan has engaged the leader, their blue and red blades clashing, the energy hum of lightsabers a constant background to the noise of the more chaotic blaster fight.

Padmé clambers upwards into the tree and them leaps off it and over onto the next dry mud ridge, turning back to fire, before ducking to the ground. If she can draw any of them off, Obi-Wan will handle the rest. Mud explodes beside her elbow and she grins in brief triumph before pushing herself up and racing away. A trooper close behind her gives a sudden shout and then is silent but another remains safely on her tail. Padmé _runs_.

She turns as soon as she’s dealt with her pursuer and heads back, breathless in this heat, a vein throbbing at her temple. She doesn’t dare slow down – she has to get to Obi-Wan. When she returns to the scene of the fight, she pulls up sharply in sick shock. The sinister grey and red figure is standing in front of her alone, his lightsaber raised to strike. She can’t see Obi-Wan, only something off-white at his attacker’s feet.

Padmé doesn’t stop to think. She fires, hitting the man in the back of the neck at close range. He cries out, dropping the blade and falls slowly, raising his hand. Padmé’s thrown into the air. She lands with a slapping squelch in the mud, winded, tears starting to her eyes. _Stay still_ she reminds herself. _Don’t panic. Breathe_. Vines curl around her body, tighten, and then slacken at her lack of movement. She waits, counting to five under her breath, though it feels like forever, before she pulls herself up and forces herself forward. She has to reach Obi-Wan; she has to know –

She runs blindly, wiping mud from her eyes, and collides with Obi-Wan as he stands. He catches at the nearest tree to steady them both while Padmé clings to him tightly, too breathless to speak. They’re safe, she tells herself, and when she lifts her head to look, the Sith, or whatever he was, is lying face down in the swamp along with the clone troopers.

“It’s all right,” Obi-Wan says, his arms around her. “Padmé, I had him. I was about to finish him when you –” He shakes his head, and kisses her hair. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all right. And you - you’re unhurt?” It’s barely a question; he can tell without asking.

She shakes her head. “Bruised, but I’ll live.” She pulls back to an arm’s length to survey him properly. “You?”

“Barely grazed,” he says, with a smile. 

Her eye lights on the cut on his arm. “More than grazed, I think.”

“The ship,” Obi-Wan says. “Is everyone safe?”

Padmé nods. “I told them to go. They’re okay. You, on the other hand, need medical attention, so –”

“Wait,” he says softly, putting a hand to her arm, silencing her. He moves away, running lightly over the boggy ground to where one of the troopers lies. Padmé sees, as she joins them, that the clone is bleeding from blaster wounds. It’s her handiwork.

Obi-Wan crouches down beside him. “Trooper,” he says. The man is dying, his eyes glazed, and in no state to resist Jedi influence. “Your status. Report.”

“There _was_ something,” the fallen clone trooper says, with an effort. “ _Not_ a wild bantha chase. A Jedi. Need reinforcements, sir. Raise the pilot –” He stops, blood leaking out from his mouth as he coughs and is silent.

Padmé meets Obi-Wan’s gaze as he looks up at her. If this group of Imperial hunters chanced on them while in pursuit of something or someone else, then that’s good news for them, but they still need to make sure none of them get word out to anyone else. 

“We must get to their ship,” he says, straightening. “There’s no time to waste.”

Padmé nods. Everything else needs to wait until they’ve made certain that their continued existence remains a secret. She glances behind her at the bodies lying in the swamp with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She’d wanted to leave scenes like this behind her, as well as the Empire. She claps a hand to her mouth, wanting, inappropriately, to laugh, but reaction must wait along with everything else.

“You don’t have to come,” says Obi-Wan, his expression softening. 

Padmé lifts her chin instantly. She doesn’t need to reply.

“Yes, sorry,” he says, his face lightening briefly as he manages a smile. “Silly of me. Come on.”

“Someone’s got to have your back,” she says. “Besides, I prefer your company to a lot of corpses, thanks.”

He takes her hand and they move on, as quickly as they can.

The ship’s deserted but for a pilot, and Obi-Wan deals with him before he’s even turned to ask questions. They use the unit’s own explosive devices to rig the ship, and run. 

Obi-Wan pulls Padmé down seconds before the spaceship explodes behind them, showering everything in a radius that stops barely a hand’s width behind them with mud and roots. Trees tremble and fall around them.

“Who were they?” she asks, after the worst of the explosion dies away and the ground stops shaking. Obi-Wan, however, keeps his arm around her, and she’s not complaining.

He won’t look at her. “It appears the Emperor has a dedicated corps to hunt down surviving Jedi. Hardly surprising.”

“And that was a – a Sith leading them?”

Obi-Wan hesitates, turning before answering and she thinks for a moment, that he’s going to change the subject. “That’s what it is – _was_ – now, yes.”

“What?”

“I don’t believe they kill every Jedi they find.”

Padmé’s shocked at the idea. She’s not a Jedi; she doesn’t have Obi-Wan’s devotion to the Order and her faith in them is tempered by pragmatism, but it’s still too much to take in.

“The Dark Side _is_ powerful,” Obi-Wan says, his voice carefully neutral.

Padmé lets the subject rest. It’s far too painful to discuss, like so many other things. But if that’s so, if that Sith was once a Jedi, she’s glad she’s the one who killed him, not Obi-Wan. Whoever he was, whatever he became, he meant nothing to her. “Are we safe?” she asks instead.

He sits up. “As much as we ever are.”

Padmé pulls a face, acknowledging the unwanted truth. They’re not safe anywhere in the galaxy. That’s why she’s going to take them right out of it. “I’ll raise Threepio. It’s time to go.”

“Agreed,” he says, and as he sits there, watching her wiping the mud from the comm link, he adds, more quietly, “Padmé. You should have gone with them. You should have left me.”

She shakes the comm link, wrinkling her nose. “Can I try yours?” Then she looks up, straight over at him. “ _No_. If I have to leave you to save the rest of us, then I will, yes. I hope you’ll do the same for me. But only if there’s no other choice. Today there was.”

He gives a small frown and lifts his head as if he’s about to speak, but she forestalls him, placing her hand over his.

“You can’t get out of it that easily,” she says, and tries to laugh, but blinks away tears. “Who else is going to stop the twins causing a disturbance in the Force? How am I supposed to stay sane without someone around who isn’t a baby, a droid or a Wookiee?”

He smiles properly then and takes her hand, pulling her in nearer. “Point taken. But you must be more careful.”

Padmé lets the comm link fall, and raises her chin. “Oh?” she says, and doesn’t tell him that if she had gone, if she hadn’t fought with him and for him, she’d have broken a promise.

“Well, what am _I_ going to do if you leave _me_ alone with this lot?” he returns. “I’ve got enough grey hairs already.”

She wraps her arms around him, heedless of the state they’re both in, splattered with mud. “You’d better be more careful, too. I can’t – Obi-Wan –” Her voice breaks. She can still see that figure standing there, Obi-Wan fallen. She swallows and hangs onto to him, feeling the reassuring fact of his living, breathing body against hers.

Obi-Wan says nothing, pulling her in closer and kissing her, the way she’s wanted him to for months, even if in her head it was somewhere more congenial than a swamp.

 _We stay together_ , she thinks again, closing her eyes as she returns the kiss, abandoning all thought of anything else. Never mind the humidity, the acrid smoke from the burning ship, the odd, slightly earthy-sweet mud that’s everywhere, or the bloodied bodies they’ve left behind them in the swamp. They’re alive, and she threads muddy fingers through his hair and kisses him all the harder to prove it.

He kisses her again, his fingers running over the line of her jaw, and on down her neck, and Padmé closes her eyes, something breaking inside her in both guilt and relief – understanding now how it feels to be loved and not possessed. She will let go of him if she must, that’s not a lie – although only if she must. She trusts he’ll do the same, and knows at least, that he’ll never hold on so tightly it chokes the life out of her. 

She can’t keep back tears, and Obi-Wan pulls away, studying her with concern.

“Padmé,” he says.

She shakes her head and gives a watery smile. “Thank you,” she says, and watches his face crease in confusion, then stretches up to kiss him again before he can ask why.

Never mind guilt or rules or codes. It’s right, this time.

* * *

**5\. Ryya**

_[Chommell Minor]_

_Obi-Wan searches for a ship from the second-hand dealers of the planet’s second city, while a state funeral takes place on Naboo and a Senator’s ship hides two dangerously significant babies. It’s no good going to reputable dealers – they’ll want ID and pilot’s licenses and Obi-Wan doesn’t want to risk using the Force here. Better to approach the kind of people who don’t ask for anything more than credits paid upfront._

_This one, he thinks, may do. He walks the length of the light freighter and though he notes dents and patches, the hull is sound, the lines are good. There’s no break in the vacuum seal. Searching inside reveals that a number of systems are not working, but most of them can be fixed. Plenty of its parts need replacing, but only minor ones. It will take a while to get it spaceworthy, but it is possible and won’t cost half a planet._

_The damage is mainly superficial but highly visible – enough to deter buyers who don’t look beneath the surface – there’s rust on a superfluous outer panel, in addition to the dents. Inside, things have a tendency to fall off at a touch. Under that, it’s sound. Obi-Wan can almost hear the song of its lines against the planet’s atmosphere as it heads for space; the way the hyperspace displacement feels against its hull. It’ll do._

_When he and the worn-looking woman in a pilot’s leathers have finally come to an agreement regarding price, he circles the ship again. “Does she have a name?”_

_“_ Hope of the Fleet _,” says the woman. She shrugs._

_Obi-Wan looks upward at the cockpit. The paint flakes off the body onto his head. “I won’t ask what happened to the rest, then.” But he feels something lift inside him at the other meaning of the name. Nothing is a coincidence. The Force is with them._

Padmé and Obi-Wan are here on Ryya for the festival, like everyone else. In another ten hours, the sun will rise over the ice-crusted Jewelled Mountains. The effects are spectacular, they say. The fact that their astromech droid is here to extract the navigational data files they need to travel on beyond the limits of the galaxy while everyone’s distracted is not something they need acknowledge to anyone else. They are merely another pair of passing tourists.

The maintain-top home of their host, Arij Thima, is almost reminiscent of Coruscant without the traffic. It’s a lofty residence among several such with large curved transparisteel walls overlooking the valleys and lower peaks. The view, one of the Ryyans assures them, will be unsurpassed. It’s dark outside, so they’ll have to take their word for it. All the long window is now is a mirror.

“It sounds wonderful,” says Padmé, as they take refreshments from the tray carried by a polished silver droid. She’s wearing a long, deep red gown with delicate beadwork, and a matching head scarf in a gauzy material. It’s elegant, but much softer and simpler than her Senatorial style; nothing that should jog anyone’s memory too hard.

Obi-Wan is beside her in a light brown tunic and leggings, with blue embroidered strips down the middle and edges, not entirely happy out of his robes, but understanding the need.

“Do I know you?” asks the Ryyan, frowning at Padmé. “Were you here last year?”

Padmé laughs. “Impossible. When was the last time we left G’rho, Ben?”

“I honestly can’t remember,” Obi-Wan says, which is at least perfectly true, unlike most of the other claims he’s made this evening. His comm link beeps and he smiles, excusing himself, and withdraws into the nearest alcove.

“Artoo has been successful,” he tells Padmé, standing close, near enough to murmur the information into her ear; a status report disguised as casual affection. “He’s on his way back to the ship.”

Padmé leans against him, watching the dancing disintegrate into less stylised and more chaotic forms as the guests grow ever more drunk. She stiffens, suddenly, and turns, pressing her face in against his shoulder, taking him by surprise.

“Amé?” he says, only just remembering the alias. They ought to use them all the time, but they’ve clung to the luxury of going by their old names in private, of remaining themselves to each other. And, in her ear, more softly: “What’s wrong?”

She shifts her head, looking up. “Over there. Someone I’ve met. I think he petitioned one of my committees, years ago. He probably wouldn’t recognise me here, like this, but –”

“No need to take unnecessary risks,” he agrees, studying the room. He doesn’t feel any particular interest directed towards them. There are no sudden changes in anyone’s behaviour, and the man Padmé’s spotted is dancing carelessly with the rest.

Obi-Wan shifts his hold on Padmé, sliding his hand down to take hers and pull her away from the crowd, into the shadowed space by the darkened windows.

“We can’t leave yet,” she says in an undertone. “Not before sunrise. People might get suspicious.”

He laughs, and kisses her temple. That’s part of the disguise, too. It’s also the truth. “I’m not proposing we go back to the ship, only to our room.” He glances around, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “We won’t be the only ones.”

Padmé sits on the bed with her arms around her knees, the discarded red headscarf lying on the covers beside her while Obi-Wan looks out of the transparisteel, despite the fact that all he can see is his own reflection, arms folded, and oddly alien in these unfamiliar clothes.

“Do you want to explain to me where we’re going?” he asks, turning. They’ve time and space to talk here, which is a rare commodity on board their ship, and this is a conversation that’s long overdue. He’s followed her without question, but as they approach the limits of the galaxy’s Outer Rim, it’s become clear that Padmé intends to go much further. “The Unknown Regions? I assume you know as well as I do how many ships have been lost in the attempt to explore them; I assume you have your reasons. I’d like to think you felt able to share them with me.”

Padmé lifts her head, pressing her hand against her forehead. “I knew you’d say something like that. That’s why I didn’t tell you till I knew it was possible. I didn’t have the energy to argue.”

“I’m not going to argue,” he says. Whatever she decides, he’s committed to her venture. Even if her current plan could be categorised as suicidal. It’s hardly a first for him – he’s been party to worse plans. “But it is a risk.” He crosses to the bed and sits on the edge to lift up the flimsy scarf. Underneath it is a tiny blaster. “Then there’s this.”

That she must have weapons is a sad necessity; that this is another supposed secret from him concerns him. It means there’s also something about this he won’t like.

Padmé looks over at him, and gives a small, wry smile. “We have to get out of the galaxy,” she says. “Otherwise he’ll find me. We can maybe keep the twins hidden from him and the Emperor if we keep far enough out, keep moving. You can hide, maybe. But he _will_ find me. I know he will.”

Obi-Wan can’t argue with that, either. Anakin’s obsession with Padmé began a long time ago and fear of losing her drove him to the Dark Side. What form it takes now, he’d rather not know. Her supposed death won’t have put an end to it. Sooner or later Anakin – _Vader_ – will think of her once too often and, powerful as he is, he’ll feel her presence, even from the farthest reaches of the Outer Rim. 

“It’s just security,” she says, with a nod to the blaster. “In case –” She stops, her breath hitching. “In case he doesn’t want to kill me. I don’t want to be made – to become –” She stops and gives him an unhappy shrug. He understands, but she’s right: he doesn’t like it.

“You said you sensed good in him,” he says. He’s not sure whether or not he can believe that – he felt nothing left on Mustafar – but he’s more inclined now to admit the possibility. He has come to put his faith in her, and she’s not misled him yet. He trusts, in time, she’ll regain that faith in herself, but it’s not something he can do for her. “There’s always hope,” he says, touching her cheek lightly with his fingers. He hopes she’ll understand. “You must believe that.”

Padmé bites her lip. “Perhaps. But I couldn’t get through to him even then, and now – after this – _us_.” She shivers. “He’d be furious.”

“Yes,” says Obi-Wan, but doesn’t apologise for anything. Vader would be reduced to incandescent rage merely to find them hiding together. He’d think the worst whatever they’d done. He already had, back when he should have known them both too well for that. “Even so, I can’t say I like our odds in the Unknown Regions much better.”

The shadows fade from Padmé’s face as she pushes forward, sitting and putting a hand on his arm. “No, Obi-Wan, our odds are good! A merchant from Zaadja told me once about a project to extend a trade route through the Unknown Regions. Some of the Outer Rim planets in these sectors have discovered it is navigable by short hyperspace jumps, especially if you’ve got a Force sensitive on board. It wasn’t practical or profitable enough for the Senate, but it should work for us now we’ve got this data. As for Force sensitives,” she adds, with an impish smile, “I’m spoiled for choice.”

“The twins are on the young side for navigation duties,” he says, but he’s glad to feel her spirits rise.

She shrugs. “We can wait around these parts if we need to. Give them another year or so, I’m sure it’d be no problem if you aren’t up to it.”

“I suppose that does sound marginally less suicidal. What do you plan to do when we do reach the other side?”

“Find a quiet spot somewhere. Even if the inhabitants are hostile, at least they’re not looking for us. Raise the twins. Come back when we’re ready.” She laughs. “Take back the galaxy.”

Obi-Wan nods. “Very well. I _don’t_ like it, though, you were right about that much.”

“I knew you wouldn’t.”

“But I’ve agreed to worse before.” He waves a careless hand and her miniature blaster floats up off the mattress and out of reach, settling on a low table. Padmé shakes her head at him, but she smiles and the tension eases out of her.

He throws her a look. “How many hours now until sunrise, my love?”

“Six, I think,” says Padmé, lying down on the bed. She smiles up at him. “Why, did you have something in mind?”

Obi-Wan can feel her presence in the Force, a steady light, no longer fading and falling away. Sometimes he feels as if the air around her glows. He can sense, too, the affection emanating from her; the love that’s in her heart for him. It awes him; humbles him. It is, after everything, more than he deserves. It’s headier than any wine they’re serving here. He will be mindful of the risk, but he’s never going to draw back from her.

“I believe,” he says, moving closer, “we should take every measure to maintain our cover. What if someone blundered in here and found us only talking?”

She puts her arms around his neck. Her long hair spills out across the pillow. “Stop being ridiculous,” she says and kisses his nose.

Obi-Wan wakes early to meditate. He sits up, but is stopped at the point of sliding out of the bed by the approach of sunrise. Despite everything they’ve been told, it still comes as a surprise, the way the light steals into the room and then suddenly bathes them in rainbows; the ice-formations acting as prisms as they reflect the long-awaited spring dawn.

He touches Padmé’s arm to rouse her, persisting when she tries to shake him off. 

She frowns, propping herself up on her elbows, before she takes in the sight. “Oh,” she says, sitting up against the pillows, her face clearing with wonder. They watch together until the angles shift and the rainbows fade, though the daylight remains.

Everyone else is right. It is spectacular.

* * *

**Later**

“Rarrrgh,” says Kirrawwa, the second they’ve made it up the ramp and back onto the ship.

C-3PO turns. “Well, if you can’t stop Master Luke from playing in the workings of the aft deflector shield generator, you’re not in any position to call _me_ names.”

Luke, wriggling in Threepio’s mechanical hold, yells out, “Why-go, why-go!” It’s a new word, Obi-Wan registers vaguely, as he makes certain the hatch is securely closed behind him before either twin gets anywhere else they shouldn’t. Their growing mobility certainly keeps things interesting.

Padmé takes Luke from Threepio, heedless of her son’s grubby hands against her red party frock. “Here. I’ll see to him.” She kisses Luke’s dirt-smudged cheek and shakes her head at him. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up, you terror.”

Obi-Wan smiles, watching her carry Luke away, and goes in search of Artoo to make certain he’s got all the navigational data. He’s followed by Threepio, who’s concerned about a noise in the censor stack, and Kirrawwa, who’s loudly reconsidering her truce with Threepio. 

“There’s no need to be so rude,” says Threepio, subsiding a little, but remaining huffy.

Leia, being carried along by Kirrawwa under one arm, starts up a loud protest at the noise and, as the four of them join Artoo in the cockpit, something explodes from the panel that houses the engine starter unit.

Business as usual, in short. Obi-Wan smiles.

“One at a time, please,” Obi-Wan says, rescuing Leia first, who’s pacified by watching the smoke rise out of the damaged panel, clapping chubby hands at the sight and shouting something that sounds very much like _fire_. As first words go, he does wish it could be something _safer_. That’s something else to work on.

“Artoo,” he asks, “you _have_ got that data?”

The droid burbles in the affirmative, and there’s an edge of affront that Obi-Wan needs to ask in its tone. It’s already trundling over to deal with the fault, extinguishing the smoke.

Leia snatches at Obi-Wan’s beard and waits as he looks down at her. He bites back a smile; this is an old game already, and he knows his role well. “Ow,” he says, obligingly. He pulls a face. Leia laughs and grabs again, this time getting his nose.

Obi-Wan forgets to make the proper outraged response, distracted by a sudden thought concerning Luke’s latest word. _Why go?_ He wonders, if it’s possible… _Qui-Gon?_ Obi-Wan bites back a grin. It may or may not be so, but he discovers every day that he has much to learn from the twins. It wouldn’t surprise him, at this point, to find they’re better at communing with Force ghosts than he is.

Leia, meanwhile, tugs at the shiny blue fastenings on his borrowed cloak, bringing him back from what is only speculation and thus unhelpful. She snatches again at his beard, dark eyes fixed on him, waiting for his response. Obi-Wan laughs and leaves Artoo to deal with the repairs, heading back with Leia in his arms to find Padmé and Luke.

Padmé turns from where she’s kneeling on the floor with Luke as Obi-Wan enters the cabin. A smile breaks on her face that lights up the room like the dawn they both witnessed that morning. “Obi-Wan,” she says, and laughs, kissing Luke’s head.

“Padmé,” he says in return, and puts Leia down so that she can crawl with steady determination over to her mother and brother.

None of this is anything he ever expected or asked for, but it’s home now, this battered _Hope of the Fleet_. He has a feeling it will remain so for a long while to come. The Force is with them, and the seeds of hope across the galaxy _are_ growing. Obi-Wan marvels at the strange new forms they take, and even more again at where he’s found himself. 

The end of everything, it turns out, is only the beginning.


End file.
